The Musings of One Damn Lucky Guy
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Set sometime after 7x05. Rated M to be safe but not explicit. There's one damn lucky guy out there.


It was an especially grueling case-over a week's worth of travel around East Texas. In the end, Abbott requests that Jane stick around to observe the questioning of the white collar suspects by several agents from a different department. "Because of your skills. With people," he tells him.

Normally, he and Lisbon stay together; patiently waiting for the other to finish the day's work, but this case really took a toll on Lisbon. The hours were insanely long and they'd covered a large section of the state. So Jane has Wylie accompany her home and asks him to bring the vehicle back for him. Throws the keys at Wylie and issues dire warnings about not marring the paint job on Lisbon's car. He knows the decision is the right one when Lisbon doesn't protest beyond a token argument-it doesn't take much convincing, and later, he texts to let her know that the work day might last well into the evening.

* * *

><p>Later, while slipping the key into the lock, he stamps his feet on the doormat, shaking off the last of the dirt sticking to his shoes. It's dark outside as he enters the house; a smile briefly crosses his face as he notices that she's thoughtfully left some strategically located lights on for him. He drops his keys in his pocket, removes his jacket and hangs it up, and heads for the bedroom. He's happy to see that she's asleep.<p>

He briefly contemplates waking her, but she's in a deep sleep as he removes his vest. Since he came clean about his feelings, and the miracle of her reciprocation, there is hardly a day when he does not spend all day eagerly anticipating their time alone in the evening. He is certain that Abbott and Cho snicker behind their backs, knowing full-well why he and Lisbon often appear so happy. Wylie, he thinks, has yet to catch on. And there is no denying it-he is happy. For the first time since Angela and Charlotte's deaths, he is happy. He is sure that his Teresa is happy too. He's made a habit of mentally cataloging her smiles-type and frequency-and he is certain about this.

He just can't figure out why. A woman like her could not only have any man on the planet, she could have any man on her own terms. A straight-arrow law enforcement type like Pike, or a boy-toy...

Let's face it, he thinks: Patrick Jane, you are one damn lucky guy. And it's only because she got off that plane.

Many days, when they get back to the house, he and Lisbon immediately have sex, and it is quick and perfunctory but hits the spot. He knows from experience that this will eventually wane, but for now, no one is complaining. Afterward, Lisbon will crinkle her nose, and tell him that she's reserving something more special for him for the next time, when sleep and time aren't such pressing needs due to their professional lives. He grins right back at her, and tells her that he is the luckiest guy in the world. Other days, when the work is more fun, a session of invigorating loving results in Lisbon passing out. He loves to tease her about that, though Lisbon will vehemently deny that she routinely falls deeply asleep after making love. He'll then chuckle, remind her to go to the bathroom and pee before falling asleep, then once she returns, draws the covers up to her chin and strokes her hair as she falls asleep as predicted. Ending the evening like this, with this woman, makes up for all those sleepless years.

How did he get so lucky? To have her steadfast friendship and loyalty for so many years, at great professional and personal peril. To have her wait for him to return to her after Red John was dispatched-though she vehemently denies that she did just that. And then to choose him over Pike?

He is one damn lucky guy; there's no other reason.

Other times, he'll think it's fate, not luck. Though not a believer, he sometimes dreams that his two angels sent him to Teresa-to help bring their killer to justice and heal him in the process.

But mainly, he's lucky. Lucky to know this woman for well over a decade and still have her take his breath away when he sees her. Lucky to discover a whole new aspect to her now that he knows her intimately, knows the look in her eyes as she climaxes. Lucky to also know that she reserves a part of herself for those she loves and it is so much more than he ever imagined. Lucky that the part she reserves for him, her most intimate, is so sexy, so loving, so giving...

Lately, Jane often catches her looking at him, and it's definitely not platonic. He's seen that look before. He knows what a woman in love looks like-he's been a lucky man before. More importantly, he knows what it feels like to have the woman he loves return that love. It's a feeling he thought Red John had killed in him.

He's so damn lucky that Teresa reawakened that in him.

* * *

><p>Her sleeping form is curled up on her side of the bed, facing his side, her face peeking over the edge of the comforter. The calm peacefulness of her sleeping face belies the vivaciousness she exudes during the day. A hand is seemingly placed where his chest would be. She likes to fall asleep in his arms, her hand over his heart. He likes the feeling that someone is taking care of his heart.<p>

He walks over, close to her, and runs his fingers through her hair as he thinks about their life. She's so incredibly generous, in so many ways, not just with him. From the get-go, her generosity of self, and the way that she was so considerate, surprised and delighted him, and constantly touched him, though he could not tell her so back when they first met. She literally picked him up off the floor of the CBI and she's saved him so many times since then.

The first night after they acknowledged their mutual love, they shared a room at the Blue Bird Inn. She confessed that she'd never been more scared of anything than when she decided to not go to DC and got off that plane. She'd never had someone declare his love to her before actually doing the deed, she said. She admitted her fear that he would reject her when she came to see him at the airport.

Later that day, when he told her that she showed him how to love again, she broke down in tears, and they spent the night talking and putting the past in the past. There would be no scorekeeping going forward.

Then there's the sex. A man does not end years of self-imposed celibacy lightly. He was pretty sure that she had more variety of experience than he did. He tried to manage expectations-expectations of greatness. But on the second day, she put him at ease with her simple declaration that he was it for her, and since she was never going to sleep with any other man, they had the rest of their lives to get it right.

And man is he one damn lucky guy.

Teresa and sex are a revelation. He'd cold-read her through the years and surmised that she'd be beyond passionate. He is lucky: he was right. He's already experienced everything from her dominance to her submission, to mutual participation. She's just as magnificent when she's astride him running the show as when she's submissively on her knees, caring only for his pleasure.

Patrick Jane fervently hopes he's lucky enough to not screw this up.

As he falls asleep, he looks at the ring on his left hand. It used to always be the last thing he did at night, a reminder of his angels and the job he needed to do. Teresa's never made a big deal about it. He knows that he needs to come to terms with it, because there is no way he's not marrying her.

He won't screw this up.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Jane grabs some clean clothes and heads to their bathroom. She's still asleep, it seems. He smiles wryly as he surveys the sink area. His section: sparsely accessorized, neat. Hers: a precisely ordered collection of items that he knows she does not really need.<p>

He sighs and surveys his face in the mirror. Starting to show my age, he thinks, as he runs a hand over his stubble.

He reaches for his shaving cream and razor, checking the blade before turning on the tap and splashing his face with warm water.

"Mmm."

He looks up into the mirror again as he hears Lisbon murmur and feels her arms snake around his waist, a warm cheek pressed against his bare back.

"Teresa."

"'Morning," she murmurs. "Did you have to work really late?"

"Not too late. You were fast asleep, my sleepy little princess," he quips.

She moves around to his front, as she reaches up to stroke his jawline, then presses a kiss against his lips. She whispers, "Let me." Before he can react, she grabs the shaving cream out of his hand and the razor from the side of the sink.

"Lisbon..." he protests.

He's never let anyone, let alone a woman, shave him before. Sure, he's fantasized about it, but one viewing of "The Color Purple" as a young man had struck terror into him and he'd concluded that one could never be sure what a woman was thinking while wielding a razor against one's throat.

"Relax," Lisbon purrs. "You still look so tired," she whispers. "Just relax."

He starts to protest.

"Uh uh. Don't worry; I know how to do this. Legs, underarms?" She laughs and points to her legs.

She nudges him to turn him to face away from the mirror, and he perches on the counter, with Lisbon already deftly lathering the left side of his face.

She giggles. "Too bad you don't use whipped cream for this!" she says as she wiggles a shaving-cream-covered index finger at him, before reaching over to rinse it off.

He doesn't know if this shaving is a good idea. She's so close to him, so enticing, rumpled by sleep and in her typical sleep attire. It's too damn bad the Bears suck this year, he thinks.

And she's ready-to shave him. He tries not to wince as the first stroke rasps over his beard. She handles the razor deftly, and swiftly. He might, he thinks, actually relax and close his eyes. And before he knows it, she's methodically done the left side of his face.

She stops for a second and surveys her work, grabbing a towel to dab off any residue. Smiling, she takes a step back, then reaches out and touches the half of his face that she's taken care of.

"Mmm," she purrs, and lingering, she drags her fingers across the smoothness. Her other hand comes up and traces the outline of the unshaved side of his face. She purrs again, as she leans in to kiss him on the lips, and rubs one cheek against the smooth side of his face, then turns to rub the other against the stubbled side. "Don't know which I love more," she says, as she steps close again, cradling both sides in her hands.

They remain there for what seems a long while, and he's faced with a dilemma. He needs to shave the other side of his face. But he wants her too. And she's standing there, so warm and rumpled and inviting, and all he wants to do is get her naked in the warmth of the bathroom, and rub first one side of his face, then the other, and then the smooth side again, all over her body, in every place. Imagining her reaction, his body reacts, and he sees her smirk.

"Come on, let me finish," he hears her say.

Gently taking her wrist, he removes the razor from her hand, places it on the counter, and gifts her with a quick kiss on her pulse-point. "I'll take a raincheck," he whispers, "I woke you up and I'm sorry. Why don't you go back to bed and I'll be there soon...it's Saturday...we don't have to be anywhere..."

"'Kay, Hon," she yawns, and re-takes his face in her hands as if she's holding her whole world there. "Don't be long," she says amidst a deep kiss, as he weaves his fingers through her hair.

"Be right there," he replies.

"I'll be waiting for you in my beekeeper outfit," he hears her giddy reply.

He quickly dispatches with the rest of his face, and brushes his teeth.

In their room, he stops at the foot of their bed and takes another moment to just watch her there, alone.

She smiles back at him.

"I really meant it, Teresa, the other night."

She knows. "You're happy."

"I'm one damn lucky guy."


End file.
